


while the rhythm of the rain keeps time

by smallredboy



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Prompt Fill, Storms, alex is afraid of storms. whats new, sharing a blanket, theyre in love goddammit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 23:11:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15129803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: Burr and Hamilton are sharing a tent, and a storm starts.





	while the rhythm of the rain keeps time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> a prompt the person i gifted this to left me on tumblr! i've written the trope of alex being afraid of storms twice already. this is just self-indulgent hamburr with side me projecting my love for lin onto burr
> 
> title is from jet pack blues by fall out boy. this also fills the 'fear / terror' square in my gen prompt bingo card.
> 
> enjoy!

Hamilton used to share a tent with Laurens. But Laurens is now in South Carolina, fighting a war of his own. Burr is put in the same tent as Hamilton because of orders of the General. If General Washington’s look was anything to go by, there’s a reason other than using all the space they have.

Hamilton doesn't try to start conversation; Burr isn't the closest of his friends, and he's clearly awkward, so conversation doesn't happen.

The cold goes down to their bones, and Hamilton wraps a blanket around himself. It chills their whole being, and he can hear the start of a downpour. Burr doesn't have a blanket, and he's hugging himself tightly in an attempt to keep himself warm.

"Come here," Hamilton says, patting the place at his side. 

Burr looks up, pulls his arms away from himself. "Huh?"

"I said come here. Share this blanket with me."

Burr seems flustered, but he obeys and drapes half of the blanket over himself. It's quiet, and it's nice. Burr's hand wraps around Hamilton's - his hand is so cold it makes Hamilton curse quietly. But he laces his fingers with Burr's, rubs his hand a little to try and warm the other man up.

The moment is tender, almost, them sharing the blanket and the heat it provides. Burr gets a little closer to Hamilton so it can drape over his shoulder farther from the fellow soldier. He leans against Hamilton, head against his shoulder, and tries to sleep a little. Hamilton keeps rubbing his hand, warming it up.

"You're freezing," Hamilton says, and he sounds almost concerned.

"Didn't have a blanket," Burr replies, looking up at him with a slight smile.

Hamilton smiles back, and the conversation is over, but the tenderness isn't. Burr doesn't know what to think about this man — never has, really. He's loud and talkative, but so charming, more than his friend Laurens has ever been. He has a way with words, and has a way to make him stare at his lips and wonder what it would cost him to just kiss him.

Then they hear the roll of thunder, and Hamilton shoots up from his sleeping bag as if something pulled him up. Burr pulls away from his hand and looks up at him with concern. 

Another thunder rolls and a quiet whimper escapes Hamilton's mouth. Burr thinks, for just a second, that Hamilton kind of looks like a scared child. As if he can't find his mother anywhere in the house. The rain hits against the tent, and it's loud, and Hamilton paces around the tent as if it will stop the rain.

Hamilton looks distraught; Hamilton looks terrified — Burr has shared the battlefield with him many times before and he's never looked this scared. He doesn't plan to ask what happened, why is he so afraid of the storm — Hamilton should deal with whatever he's thinking alone.

He listens to the rain and to the storm, and all he gets is peace from it. Meanwhile, Hamilton gets more and more frantic with every thunder, with every drop of rain hitting the tent.

Burr has to do something. He murmurs "fuck it" under his breath and gets up, wrapping the blanket around his own frame.

"Hey, Hamilton, are you alright?"

Hamilton turns around and he pales. "Burr," he starts softly, his voice laced with fear. "I'm gonna die, Burr." And he heard Hamilton say he imagines death so much it feels more like a memory, but Hamilton's terrified at the prospect of dying here. Dying like this, young and a soldier and achieving nothing at all. Burr gets it — he gets it, really, he does.

"The storm can't hurt you," Burr says, and he takes the blanket off his shoulders and wraps it around Hamilton's shaking frame. He seems to relax a little, gripping at the blanket tightly. "You're here in your tent. Nothing will happen." Why does he care so much? He doesn't know, he really doesn't.

"But -" Hamilton starts, and he lets out a quiet sob. "Everyone else will..." 

"Breathe," Burr says, and he puts a hand on Hamilton's shoulder. He looks up at the careful touch, and their eyes meet. Hamilton's are glazed over with fear and tears and memories. "Can you do that for me? Can you breathe for me?"

"Y-yeah," Hamilton nods. He takes gulps of air, sometimes interrupted by quiet sobs, but as the time passes he stops crying, and he stops shaking. He keeps a tight hold on the blanket as if he might disappear into thin air if he doesn't keep it around his frame.

"Are you okay?" Burr asks, and he cares, and my God, he's so doomed. 

Hamilton takes a deep breath and nods. "Yeah. I'm -- I'm sorry you had to see that, Burr." He sits back down on his sleeping bag, and Burr follows. For a moment he doesn't mind having the cold chill him to his bones, as Hamilton is trying to not panic again by holding the blanket.

"It's okay, Alexander," he says, rubbing the back of his neck comfortingly. Hamilton flushes pink at the contact and turns around to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark and almost-black brown, and they gleam. They gleam with too much knowledge for a twenty-something, with wit and with passion and goddammit.

There's silence for a few seconds, Hamilton still hogging the blanket. Burr doesn't exactly mind, even though he's freezing again.

"What happened?" Burr asks hushedly.

Hamilton lets out a sigh and looks at the floor. 

"You don't have to tell me."

Hamilton nods curtly and pushes the blanket off one of his shoulders, offering it to Burr. He quickly wraps himself in it, pushing himself closer to his fellow soldier. Their knees brush together.

"When I was seventeen..." Hamilton starts. Burr makes a mental note that Hamilton is twenty-two right now; that it wasn't that long ago. "When I was seventeen there was a hurricane where I lived." He gulps and looks at the ground, and then at Burr. He laces their fingers together, and Burr's breath catches in his throat for a second.

He recovers, and he tries to listen.

"I didn't drown — I don't know how I didn't drown." There's a taste of bitterness to his voice. As if he wanted to drown. "Everyone else in the town died." His voice falters a little when he continues, "their bodies lined the shores. And I was alive — I was alive."

Burr doesn't know how to respond to that. His life has always seemed like a tragedy to him — his father died, his mother died six months afterward. His grandfather died while he was supposed to take care of him. Lacking family, but never lacking a place, as he was the child of the president of Princeton. But Hamilton's story seems worse, and he knows barely anything about it.

"That's terrible, Alexander," Burr says after a few seconds, rubbing circles into the back of Hamilton's neck.

Hamilton laughs dryly. "Shit, I know. If it hadn't happened I wouldn't have written that poem and would've never gotten out of that island." He turns to meet Burr's gaze again. There are no tears left in his eyes.

There's no discussion — Hamilton just leans closer to Burr, way too close to be something men do between them because they're friends. Hamilton kisses Burr's cheek and cups the other with his hand, and Burr is speechless.

Their gazes meet again, and Burr can't help but notice all the small details he can't see when they're in the battlefield or a feet or two away. Hamilton's bags under his eyes, probably from never sleeping enough; Hamilton's nose that looks like it was sculpted by God himself.

"Um," Burr says softly, and Hamilton pulls away. There's fear in his eyes again. 

Burr doesn't know what to do other than pull Hamilton back close to him. He cups his cheek with his palm, dark brown contrasting with his soft tan. "Alexander," he breathes, too kind and too caring and too careful.

"Burr," he says, and it's tender. He usually says it with confusion or with surprise or with contempt — except for this time. This time it's so tender Burr feels like he can't breathe for a second.

He can't wait for it right now. Their lips meet in a needy frenzy, mouths open and moving and Hamilton's lips are chapped with war and with sweat and tears. Burr groans into his mouth, tangles his hand on his hair, pushes him impossibly closer.

Once they pull away, they're both out of breath. Burr presses their foreheads together, and their lips meet again. Hamilton's mouth is impossibly warm, and fuck, he adores having it against his own.

"Alexander," he says. And it’s almost desperate — it’s almost needy. He hates it, hates just how different Hamilton makes him talk and act.

“Yes, Burr?” he has this smile on his lips, a lopsided grin, and goddammit. God damn it, he is so doomed.

“I…” the words die in Burr’s mouth.

“I know,” Hamilton whispers, voice kind and sincere. It makes Burr’s heart ache. “I do too, Burr.” He opens his mouth to speak, to say anything, and instead he kisses Hamilton again. It feels like coming back home.

Burr huddles close to him, the blanket draped around them, and he kisses his cheek before leaning into him and closing his eyes. Hamilton puts a hand on Burr's shoulder, rubs it a little.

"Thank you," he says quietly, barely loud enough for Burr to hear.

"You're welcome," Burr replies before dozing off, Hamilton holding him tight and him holding Hamilton even tighter.


End file.
